Vengeance is Borne from the Ashes
by theskipper
Summary: Wracked by war, governed by genocide, tortured by tyranny, Azeroth threatens to be overrun by chaos and destruction. But in the darkest of times, hope exists. As the cabal of a demigod threatens to demolish everything in its passage, a hero will arise.
1. Prologue

Vengeance is Borne from the Ashes

_It is often in times of deepest darkness that a hero arises from the most unexpected of sources. The year 1049 P.F (post founding of the new Alliance capital of New Stormwind in Azeroth) would certainly qualify. Whether a hero arose, however, is open to dispute._

_After a long period of tension between the horrifying undead armies of Northrend and the civilizations of Azeroth, the conflict known as the War of the Five Nations erupted. In a tempest of fire and rage, skeletal hordes and the hulking corpses of spider-like nerubians crossed the Veiled Sea and landed at the northernmost tip of Kalimdor, ready to wrack havoc among the free peoples of the world._

_While fel orcs battled their brothers in Durotar and civil war erupted in the Alliance, the majority of the fighting happened near Elthop Forest. This haunted place would be central to the mysterious events that would occur later that year._

_I must remind eager readers however, that this is not simply the retelling of a war. What happened in 1049 was crafted as much by a handful of individuals as by the armies of the Undead Scourge, the Orcish Horde, the Human Alliance, or the Night Elf Sentinels. More than anything else, this is the story of the courage of a few on both sides against treachery and chaos. This is the story of Banehallow, the Dreamer, and Nortrom, the Silencer. This is the story of the Culling Blade and its mad captain, of the last ride of the Watchers and the deadly game the Weaver played, of the curse of the Avernus bloodline that saw the last Lord of Avernus fall to madness and vengeance. This is the story of assassins and generals, of demons and mages, of crusaders and demigods._

_"When the dead walk, there is much to fear. But when they also plot and manipulate, then must the living tremble for their foe has grown all the stronger."_

_-Archmage Telvannis_


	2. It Begins With Torches and Axes

**_Chapter 1: It Begins with Torches and Axes_**

"Open up in the name of the Inquisition!"

Purist didn't expect a reply, nor did he receive one. It did not bother him. There was something about the sound of a wooden door collapsing before halberd blows that made him smile. No obstacles could stop him. The Light was on his side.  
The sound of boots marching on stone floor echoed through the house as soldiers clad in the blue and black uniform of the Inquisition filed through the narrow hallways and spread out into bedrooms and storage areas.

Purist had participated in many such raids, but there was a special air of ceremony about this one. This would be the crowning arrest of the pale blond Inquisitor surveying his victim's room. Yes, Purist smiled to himself, this would be his moment.

Trained eyes flitted about the debris-laden bedroom which the occupant had left only moments before. Clothes had been hastily torn out from the closet, and bread crumbs leading to the window bore witness to an unexpected flight.

Or that was what Purist was meant to think. Once, it had been the Inquisition which had been persecuted by the vile pleasure-loving priests of the disgusting pagan gods. Yet during that time of darkness, the faithful to the Holy Light had learned how to survive the surprise attacks of the King's forces on suspected members of the Inquisition. Now that they were in power, the Inquisitors could turn the knowledge they had used to survive into ridding the world of the scum that would see the clueless masses turned away from salvation and rebirth.

A steel boot-tip parted the dirty clothes in the closet, and Purist smiled at the protruding knob of a trapdoor. It would take far more than a feigned flight to deceive the Inquisitor.

The call to gather the Inquisitorial Guard was done in silence, each man beckoning to the others with a raised hand. The stoic faces of trained soldiers peered down at the uncovered trapdoor while behind them, burly guards tried to fit themselves inside the small room.

As the highest ranked, it was to Purist that came the honor of lifting the last obstacle to this much-coveted arrest. What he chose to do instead was to smash down upon the somewhat rotten wood with his Inquisitor's staff. On the third blow, the trapdoor exploded in a mess of splinters and shards.

Purist's expressionless face was the first to peer inside the tiny chamber concealed under the closet. Dozens of faces peered back at him, grotesque dwarven features staring aghast at the intruder. Behind them, an old man tried vainly to empty out a beaker into a glass vial.

Purist sneered. "Taken to sheltering dwarves, Andromath? Well, have no worries, we've got plenty of space in our cells to keep them there. And since you've shared so much together, we might even allow you to attend their executions. That's if yours doesn't take place first."

"Rabid mongrel," hate-filled eyes glared at Purist from a wrinkled visage, "Have you no place in that empty chain mail for a heart? Does that helmet cover only greed and hate?"

"You are all under arrest," Purist gestured imperiously at the dwarves, "Soldiers, take them away."

The dwarves retreated to a corner of the room as a broadsword-wielding guardsman lowered himself down.

"If you resist, you will not have the privilege of a trial. As of late, we have been cutting costs," the Inquisitor grinned, "Who knows what will happen if I drop a torch into this hell hole?"

The dwarves huddled together as one of them was grabbed roughly by the guardsman and lifted up out of the room.

"This will bring war," Andromath whispered from his chair, aged eyes wide with horror, "This is the end of the Alliance."

"No, Andromath, this is the beginning of the Alliance. An Alliance, pure and true, and ready at last to destroy the Scourge we have been fighting since the beginning of time. With the Light on our side, how could we lose?"

There was a fanatical gleam in Purist's eyes, he knew, that appeared whenever he spoke of the Light. It was that gleam that had brought him under the wing of High Inquisitor Edmile Zolare, who had helped him rise through the ranks of the Inquisition. It was Zolare who had given Purist the honor of making the Andromath arrest, when by all rights it should have been the High Inquisitor standing here, after all the years Andromath had argued against the Inquisition before the King.

One of the dwarves broke free as a gauntleted fist tried to grab him by the beard. This one seemed to have more decorated clothes, with an emerald ring on one finger that attested to some wealth.

"You cannot do this to me! I am Muradin's ambassador! I claim diplomatic immunity."

"For association with a dangerous traitor and helping to smuggle political fugitives your diplomatic immunity is repealed," the inquisitor yawned, "Take the dwarves away. Give the ambassador a quick trial and burn him, and put the rest in the dungeons."

Andromath stood still as the dwarves were taken out, their begging and pleading receiving no recognition from the stiff soldiers. Waving the guardsmen to stand outside Purist waited until he and Andromath were alone, speaking to each other through the hole where the trapdoor had been.

"So Andromath, I'm afraid you won't be able to wiggle yourself out of this dilemma. Was your office and life really worth nothing more than a few dirty dwarves?"

"Like it would have mattered," the man who had once been the Archmage-Counselor to the King smiled grimly, "I have no doubt you have an arrest warrant for me regardless. It couldn't have been hard to trick the King into signing one, distracted as he is."

Purist leaned in, "Speaking ill of the King, are we? Oh, his Majesty won't like that. Maybe we'll have to quarter you for this additional offense."

"If the King was in his right mind," Andromath snarled back, "He would have banished you and your pack of ravenous wolves a long time ago. And when he comes to see my martyrdom, I will die with such words on my mouth that he will see that the only way the Inquisition and the Alliance can coexist is with one of the two in a coffin."

"Such a pity," Purist's white teeth gleamed, "It seems that the King is out with his mistress for the week. If it's any consolation, I will make it a point to come hear your last words, eloquent as I am sure they will be."

"You fools," Andromath's eyes bulged, "That bitch he's moping after couldn't have come at a better time for the Scourge. She'll be the end of you, your stupid Inquisition and the Alliance."

Purist sighed, "The ravings of a madman. I believe this talk must end now. I will have nothing more to do with a traitor. Guards!"

"Idiot, listen to me! This girl came out of nowhere, she has no family, no explanation for where she was born or raised. I have scoured the orphanages trying to find mention of her, but my informants come up empty handed every time. She has been planted here, by..."

Purist signaled to the golden insignia on the nearest soldier's blue uniform, "Take the Archmage. He has been stripped of all his rights and is no longer a citizen of the Kingdom of the Alliance. Take him to the dungeons."

"...every spy that's gotten close to her has disappeared! She didn't come from one of the border forts, and she doesn't speak like a country girl, yet..."

"If he continues ranting, feel free to gag him."

* * *

Most elves did not find the rowdy chatter of a tavern soothing, but Nortrom was not like most elves. To him, the mindless buzz of human talk was as natural as the melodious songs of birds in the forests. Cautiously, he drank what remained in his cup, grimacing at the sour taste of the ale.

Talk of war was rife among the tavern-goers, and some of the mercenaries spoke of early contracts with the Alliance to fight off the Scourge, or move South to suppress the dwarven insurrection.

"Hey, you," a cloaked figure sidled next to Nortrom, "Looking for some cash? This face mean anything to you?"

Nortrom waved away the crude drawing of a woman's face, and the stranger moved away to interrogate others. Bounty hunters had been rife as of late, on the trail of some woman wanted by the Alliance. Humans, of course, kept singling him out, sure that if there was a blood elf in a tavern, he must be involved in some shady business.

"Muradin's beard, soon enough I won't be able to step a foot in the Alliance, way it's going nowadays. Can ye imagine, if Mury goes to war and we get ahired, I'll get ashot on both sides. Dwarves dun care for mercenaries, not even feller dwarves, and the Alliance soldiers were always dumber than a termite's bum. Last time, Mangix got arrested cause they did nay know the Fatal Blade's was led by a Pandaren."

Nortrom concealed a smile as he moved towards the speaker, whose backside he clearly recognized as the stout dwarf continued yelling at his companions, punctuating his statements with a deep draught of ale.

"Ya, we got a contract, least Mangix got our contract last year near Fisher Bay. We was guarding against bandits, cept they never showed up acourse, but we did get the Culling Blade about four miles from our camp. Landed near the Feul castle-that's our employer-and burned down the village while we was inside having a feast. Then when they showed up asking us to open the gates we all left through the back gate, har har!"

"A fine bunch of mercenaries," Nortrom put in, "And how much were you paid to flee the battlefield?"

The dwarf turned around, "Who the hell do ya think you are, you bloody...Nortrom! Muradin's hairy buttocks, I did nay expect to see you around this dirty chamber pit of a town again!"

The figures seated around the town looked at the blood elf in surprise. After a moment, a satyr's furry face split into a smile.

"Ah Nortrom, it is good to see you again."

"It a more than good Rikimaru," his troll companion chortled, filed teeth exposed in a typical jungle troll grin, "It be destiny! I was a wonderin where mah good friend Nortrom the elf went and now a you be right ere, mon, right when i was a wonderin. Its magic my friends."

"Rhasta can predict the future," the dwarf confided to Nortrom, "But if you tell he's full of crap he'll start a fistfight. And hell, he kicked Riki's scrawny little bum too."

The satyr rolled his eyes, "As you can see Nortrom, I am surrounded by the most uncouth of company. Since you left I have had no-one but a delusional troll and an illiterate dwarf to keep me company."

Nortrom chuckled, "How's the life going guys? Mangix got you a contract yet?"

Kardel the dwarf frowned, "Mangix can't get us a contract unless he puts a mask on over his face. All he has to do is show up at the barracks and everybody thinks he's come to serve them beer. Can nay take a Pandaren mercenary seriously. Now if I were the leader and I came in there with my rifle tip up, they'd give me a contract, by Bluetooth's blue tooth they would, but Mangix, bah, we're stuck in this town till doom come, I tell ya."

Rikimaru and Rhasta laughed along with Nortrom. A bounty hunter moved to sit with them but moved away when Rhasta turned and grinned at him. Humans had an irrational fear of bloody, filed teeth.

"What about you, Nortrom?" the satyr stopped polishing his nails with his dagger to lean in, "I heard you got a nice contract. Eighty thousand gold, was it?"

Nortrom smiled at the satyr, "And where did you hear that?"

Rikimaru leaned back, cocking his eyebrow, "Hehe, I didn't hear it from anyone. Just wanted to congratulate you, was all."

Nortrom sniffed, "Should have known better than to trust humans to keep a contract confidential. Anyways, we're moving north. To Elthop Forest."

The others froze, hardly daring to give each other questioning glances. Nonchalantly, Nortrom took a sip from the drink a waiter brought him.

"And...why are you going to Elthop Forest?" Rikimaru whispered.

"The Scourge landed there a week ago. They'll need about a month to get all their troops assembled together, and by then it'll take them another week to march down to Elthop. We'll face them there."

"No," Kardel interrupted, "Why are _you_ going to Elthop Forest?"

Nortrom stared ahead, his eyes turning dreamy, "Because I can't run away forever. I have to go back there. I have to."

* * *

"Fire with ice, mind with body. Blade in sword, crystal in staff. Draw the fire, encase it in ice, meld it with spirit. A glass weapon, or a potent tool? That, is yet to be determined."

Pudge yawned, bored as he was. For the past hour he had been walking in circles around his master, trailing his giant meat hook behind him. He had long since stopped paying attention to the lich that stood drawing circles in the snow and muttering to himself.

"If I am bone, then I can wield ice, and if fire is anathema to ice than fire is of the living. Yet fire is of the demon, and the demon abhors both the living and the dead. This is the conundrum."

Pudge stopped, looking around in amazement at his surroundings. Occasionally, he forgot where he was, which made it all the more startling when he found himself in the middle of a tundra. He considered telling his master, but the lich Kel'Thuzad rarely modified anything in his servant anymore. He had long considered Pudge a finished work.

Pudge bellowed as he saw something move and took off after the small furry creature scurrying across the ice. Unfortunately, Pudge's several tons of decayed flesh melded together were not made for speed, and the weaponry he carried in his three arms did not aid in his pursuit. Resigned, he made his way back to the skeleton that hovered several inches off the ground, deep in meditation.

"If there's anything I abhor, Pudge, it's you disturbing my spells like that. If there's anything I regret about you, it's giving you such a short attention span. My next creation will definitely have a stronger mind and a lot more patience."

"But master," Pudge whined, "Pudge is booored! Pudge wants to go hunt food! Pudge doesn't want to listen to master talk about fire and ice. Pudge already knows about ice. Pudge is standing in it!"

Kel'Thuzad sighed as much as any skeleton could, shoulder bones lifting until it seemed that the lich was actually floating even higher, "I need to concentrate and I need you to be quiet. You will hunt later, but you know why I need you now. I told you before."

Pudge was crestfallen. Occasionally, his master tested him by telling him things he was supposed to remember. "Master wants Pudge to be near him because Pudge is the most prettiest thing he ever made."

Eye sockets stared at him for a moment in silence, "Not quite. You're here to protect me, and if you keep yelling and chasing squirrels, neither you nor I are going to be able to hear any intruders."

Pudge rolled his head and scratched his armpit. Brooding, he sat down and with a shock, realized he was in the tundra. Gazing wildly around, he took in his surroundings.

"Master," Pudge whispered, "We're in the tundra."

"Oh my goodness," the lich whispered to himself, "Why did I give him speech?"

"Pudge heard a clickety-clickety," the massive construct informed his master.

"That's great," Kel'Thuzad muttered, "Now where was I?"

"Terrorblade heard clickety-clicketies!" Pudge roared, angered at not being listened to.

"Terrorblade's dead," Kel'Thuzad answered carelessly, "The Watchers killed him."

"Terrorblade heard clickety-clicketies," Pudge pounded his fists together, "Terrorblade is dead!"

"Yes that's what I said, Pu..." Kel'Thuzad swiveled to stare into the baby-like face of Pudge, "Pudge, what are 'clickety-clicketies'?"

"Clickety-clicketies make sound like clickety-clickety when they walk," Pudge was frustrated with his inability to explain, "Have more legs than Pudge and Master."

"Nerubians," Kel'Thuzad whispered, "My wards didn't detect anything."

"Newubians," Pudge repeated, glad to learn a new word.

"Pudge, Kel'thuzad's voice was very soft, "Stay very close to me. If anything moves, kill it."

"How amusing, Kel'Thuzad, is this really all you have? I was expecting more."

"They thought you were dead," answered the lich, his skull spinning around to see where the bodiless voice had come from, spells of destruction appearing on the tips of his fingers, "How did you penetrate my wards?"

The voice chuckled again, "Not me, again. We have an insider, someone so deep within you that we've been able to do things otherwise unthinkable. Terrorblade! My god, that elf was already a demi-god. And now you, when the world thought your defenses impenetrable."

Pudge roared, spinning around to search for the source of the voice, right as Kel'Thuzad screamed. Then two claws smashed into the back of Pudge's head and the construct fell face forward into the snow.

* * *

The sounds of revelry permeated the air, the boisterous laughs of troll berserkers mingling with the higher-pitched chantings of the shaman and hunters. Everywhere there was dancing and joy, as the entire village celebrated the fruits of the hunt. There was no-one who had stayed in his hut for this festival, and even the most shy of young trolls was there, sitting by the fire waiting eagerly for his turn to dance with one of the young maidens.

A dark shape surveyed the now-abandoned tents, noting with distaste that even the usual guards were off celebrating. Striding past the teepee huts the unarmed figure entered the village's center, where a hundred dancing figures were illuminated by the blaze of a large fire.

It took a few moments before the visitor's presence was noted. The closest trolls looked at him curiously but made no move to disrupt their revelry for this newcomer. At last a particularly drunk berserker strode over to him, bending down to talk to the shorter figure.

Darkterror leaned back away from the alcohol-laden breath and struggled to make sense of the troll's slurred words.

Angry at not being understood, the troll repeated himself louder, at which several of his friends, having crept closer, laughed. Comprehending the taunt, Darkterror whispered a few words to the warrior, whose mouth snapped shut with a pleasingly audible sound of filed teeth smacking together.

The fool backed away slowly and Darkterror waited expectantly for another to speak with him. The trolls nearby had begun to melt away, disappearing in the crowd of dancers.

Tentacles curled together in distaste over Darkterror's mouth. The trolls probably took him for a demon, never having seen a being with tentacles growing out of cheeks or protruding blue stumps growing out of his legs and arms.

Finally a chanting witch doctor took notice of him and arrived closer. Upon seeing his face the witch doctor stopped singing.

"Are...are you looking for Vol...Vol'jin?" the troll stuttered. His knuckles were white around his shaman's scepter and his legs trembled uncontrollably.

Wordlessly, Darkterror nodded, and the troll turned to lead him out of the plaza.

The two marched out of the village and into the forest, through lush woodland and greenery. There was silence the whole way, though while Darkterror's silence was confident and smug, the troll's was a shaking, fearful respect.

At last they arrived at a cabin, built over the underlying marshes. The air stunk of peat and bog, and swarms of mosquitoes flew everywhere, though they seemed curiously repelled by Vol'Jin's abode.

"What is it, Rhasta? Are you drunk you fool? Go away!" hollered a voice at the witch doctor's knock.

The knock became more insistent and the young troll's eyes were wide with terror as they stared back at a restless Darkterror.

"What?" growled Vol'Jin, swinging open the door. His eyes looked into the scared ones of his apprentice before spotting the dark shadow beyond.

The witch doctor whispered a few words to Vol'Jin, which Darkterror didn't hear, but their effect was immediate.

"W...would you like to come in, master? My hospitality is always available to those who sail under the Red Blade," the voodoo master was pale as he invited Darkterror inside. Behind, the witch doctor disappeared into the forest, thankful that the problem had been delivered from his hands.

Darkterror swept a haughty gaze around the insides of Vol'Jin's cabin, noting the potion on the corner and the stacks of alchemy ingredients. The dessicated head of an orc decorated a bookshelf while a table supported a scrying ball, it's white shine suggesting it had been used recently.

"Some tea? I have food and..."

Darkterror's stare silenced the troll, and the faceless void took his seat slowly, lowering himself into the area reserved for the high witch doctor. He did not miss the look of hatred that the troll secretly gave him. Leisurely stretching his arms, Darkterror took his time in watching the troll wait impatiently before at last a voice raspy from disuse issued from his throat.

"The Necronomicon."

As pale as he was, Vol'Jin blanched even more. The troll stood still for a moment and the faceless void knew that the sorcerer was thinking about something very hard. It was strange that the name of book of demonology should so affect a troll witch doctor but then again, there was a lot Darkterror did not know about mages.

"I don't have it. I have never seen the book in my..." the troll's voice was too high-pitched, the words tumbling out too fast. Something about the Necronomicon had unnerved him more than a simple reference like that should have.

"Find it."

Vol'Jin nodded and practically leaped to his crystal ball, fumbling with it in his hands, treacherous fingers threatening to drop the precious sphere at any moment. After a few minutes of peering furiously into it he stood up.

"The Necronomicon is not here. It is far away, in the possession of a human, one who has seen better times. A warrior, dangerous to cross and..."

"Where?"

Vol'Jin blinked at the interruption before continuing tonelessly, "Seek out the Lord of Avernus. He has your Necronomicon."

"You are certain of this?"

"Absolutely."

Darkterror nodded and walked out. Vol'Jin was acting strangely. The high witch doctor hated him of course, but he never lied. Yet here, for all his pretense and furious peering, it had been obvious to Darkterror that the troll had not really been looking into his scrying ball. He had been pretending, which meant that he either knew of the Necronomicon beforehand or had lied.

He shrugged. There was little point in questioning his words now. If the witch doctor had lied, he would die, and if he had spoken the truth, then the dark book would be found. Darkterror did not know what to expect, but if his captain was searching for it then it must be especially powerful. The Axe did not waste his time on anything less than the greatest of treasures.


	3. Enter the Lycanthrope

_**Chapter 2: Enter the Lycanthrope**_

It was amidst the shadowy undergrowth that it began, as always. The humans' passage could be scented in the air and on the crushed ferns that now silently made way for a new party of hunters. The birds above quieted at the sight of the three dark figures prowling the forest floor. It was always in silence that the hunt began. It was always with silence that it ended.

Luminous yellow eyes turned to regard the two shapes by its side, the three hunters silently acknowledging each other. The prey was close, but a single misstep alerting it to their presence could cost them the hunt.

A long snout carefully touched the ground, breathing in the musty, familiar scent of a human, ever carelessly left among the shrubbery like a bribe to the forest's wardens, enticing them with the promise of meat and the satisfaction of an evening of flesh and blood.

The human was not alone, not anymore. The wind easing itself down the mountainside brought news of more of the two-legged omnivores, gathering together in one place. It would be a worthy fight, but the hunter knew that these newcomers were not of the lone human's pack. Like the wolves, these humans were out for blood.

Paws barely touched the rough, rocky mountain dirt and rocks beneath them as they padded forward, three smooth-lined beasts breaking into a trot without a sound. Like a ripple on a still lake, the hunters flowed along the forest floor, ascending the mountainside with all the silence of a vengeful wraith. Ghostlike in the shadows, the moonlight could only illuminate three sets of eyes, golden glowing orbs devoid fixed determinedly on their objective.

The humans ahead had collided. Without effort, the hunter could visualize them, see them as they lit up the night with explosions of fire and magic. A long blade of steel cut through the air, slicing its way through blindingly tendrils of light that clutched and snapped at the tattooed body of a dark elf. Blue ice fought the raging tide of alabaster that threatened to wash over the sweat-stained robes of a diminutive human female. By her side, a black-cloaked figure lay unmoving on the ground, drenched in its own blood.

Explosions of white and mouths spitting red blood were now reflected in wolfen eyes, pressing on the pack of three with promises of a feast such as would be remembered. A voice seemed to scream into cocked ears to press on, to make haste before it was too late, but even as he strained protesting muscles to their limits, legs pounding relentlessly on dirt terrain, a wolf's mind whispered to him that destiny could not be avoided.

While three wolves thundered beneath the mocking pines a half-league away, a tall figure toppled to the ground, weakly clutching at the dagger embedded in his throat, slowly being died red with blood. The cloaked figure was on its feet, swaying as blood continued to pour from her (it was a female, somehow her scent permeated the air) side. Her eyes glinted in the moonlight as they surveyed the corpse at her feet, her two companions doing the same. With a little groan, the blue-clad sorceress collapsed to the floor, and the tattooed warrior stooped down to tend to her.

The wolf continued running, and his two pack-brothers laboured to keep up, though they knew it was futile. Fate could not be defied, anymore than could the past be rewritten. This hunt always ended the same way.

When they would arrive several minutes later, the three killers would be gone, leaving only the cadaver of an aged human behind. Trails of blood and sweat would allow them to easily be found, but the wolves had no intention of tracking them down. Their own prey had been taken. The human had already fallen.

And then Banehallow would look down into the eyes of the corpse, and what he would see would make him pull his head up and howl at the moon. Because the human had won the hunt. The human's body had been destroyed. The human, however, was not dead.

* * *

Space and time disappeared, or zoomed by without meaning. Hunts elapsed, with failures and successes, all devoid of import or substance. Inconsistent and opaque, memories flew over and around and under, without mattering.

* * *

It was another hunt, another human, another wizard. Banehallow grinned, sharp canines glinting beneath another starry sky. By his side, Barock shifted restlessly, a forepaw toying with a blade of grass. Jolgot manifested his impatience differently, whining and moaning as he nuzzled Banehallow's flank. He felt the unnaturality of the prey and was scared. He did not think the hunt could be concluded successfully.

Banehallow ignored the others and walked forward, seeing the wizard as he lay before the fire, sketching designs in the sand with his staff. His face looked placid and bored, his features relaxed and sleepy. He did not yet know he was prey. He would not know until he was dead.

Barock growled softly and Jolgot answered, the two fanning out behind their leader. Banehallow would give Barock the honor of initiating the attack, but for now they would approach with caution and stealth.

The light of the fire gleamed in the human's eyes, his pale, skinny hands gripping his staff with unnecessary force. There was madness and fervor in his gaze. Sweat dripped from his brow, and beneath his cloak he shivered and trembled uncontrollably. The wind howled through his camp and threw sand in his eyes. The fire hissed and threatened to go out.

Fur brushed wet leaves as Banehallow eased himself through the bushes. Like a deer, the prey would be caught unprepared, the hunters moving against the wind until they reached the camp, when they would fan out and attack from behind.

Rotund'jere crackled his knuckles, glaring at his fire. He could feel something moving in the forest, could feel the forest itself moving against him. Death was near. He knew it.

A massive pair of jaws leaped out of the darkness, saber-like teeth prepared to sink into soft flesh and cloth. The frenzied eyes of an adrenaline-driven wolf howled with exhultation at the promise of action and bloodshed.

The world exploded before Banehallow's eyes in a burst of fire and light. He saw Jolgot fly behind him, a gaping hole where his stomach should be. He saw Barock's bleeding and headless body stumble and topple before him, a red stump of a neck twitching uncontrollably.

Banehallow leaped forward, feeling blood and entrails on his fur as he sailed through the air. Red liquid was dripping into his eyes, clouding his vision, but he did not know whether it was his or another's. He could feel no pain, but he moved as if disconnected from wordly sensations. Time seemed to slow.

He collided with a soft body that fell before him like a doll, offering no resistance as his jaws tore through skin and bone as if they were paper. There was no scream of resistance from Rotund'jere as he was cleaved in two, only a look of shock on his blood-drenched face before an oversized claw destroyed his features with one slice.

* * *

Darkness, then light. Strangely hairless eyelids opened to regard the face of the sun as it poured its warming light on his frail, uncontrollably shivering body like a healing balm on untended wounds.

_Bad dreams?_

Whether awake or sleeping, the taunting voice of Rotund'jere never left him. Banehallow growled, though the sound seemed strangely distorted coming out of a human throat.

_Ah, wolfbrother, it is difficult to awaken from the dream where nothing is impossible for us, to this, where we hold neither body nor presence._

Banehallow rolled his eyes. The mournful voice of Jolgot never ceased to lament its ghostly exile, which for a wolf, was somewhat out of character. Then again, if they had listened to Jolgot, he'd still be alive.

_Out of curiosity, what nightmare caused you to awaken dripping with sweat and fear?_

_Killing you, sweet human, and seeing Banehallow's jaws rip you asunder like a rag doll._

_Always pleasant in the morning, aren't we, Barock? Or maybe it's just the memory of that eldritch blast trap I set for you in that forest. If it had been just you and me, I'd still have a body, and you'd be just a vague red mark on the ground._

These disputes inside Banehallow's head never ended, Rotund'jere having all the charm of a wolverine and Barock the tact of a raging bull. And when Jolgot chimed in, it made Banehallow want to take a rock to his head.

A soft touch on Banehallow's back made him jump, and when he swiveled around he had a knife in his hand.

A female giggle tinkled melodically in the air as Akasha removed the offending hand from Banehallow's shoulder. Glowing blue eyes were the first thing one noticed about Akasha's face, followed by the smallness and seeming fragility of her body. She looked like a woman not yet outgrown childhood, with her round, symmetric face and her small stature. Apart, from, of course, the two stilettos she carried in her boots and the vial of poison hidden in the locket on her neck. Among the Scourge assassins, few could match the self-titled Queen of Pain at her work.

_With the exception of you. Don't drool over this black spider too much; the only advantage she has over you is her charm. You're still the Lich King's best assassin._

_He would make an even better hunter without the distracting voice of a clumsy human in his head._

_If I wanted the opinion of a dog, I'd ask for it. Notice I didn't._

_I'm a wolf, cheese-eater, not a dog._

"Are you all right, Banehallow? You seem distracted."

Banehallow blinked, "Apologies. It's just that time of day, you know?"

Akasha lifted an eyebrow questioningly, but changed the subject, "Ready for welcoming the naga? Clinkz claims he's brought fifteen thousand of his fellow fishmen including a singificant cortege of sirens. With that many soldiers he'll probably have to be given command of the army, if only out of respect for the naga empire. That'll be a blow for Abaddon, all right."

Banehallow smiled and leaned in to kiss the flighty young woman.

"You know," he finished breathily, "It's been a while you had this body. But I like it. Don't change it."

Akasha seemed to tense up, and a mysterious look of hate surged across her face, then was gone. She smiled easily.

"I have no intention of possessing some ugly old human hag any time soon. I am much content with my present form."

_That makes one of us. I, however, am not content with sharing Banehallow's head with some ugly old human sorceror that we killed fifty years ago._

_I'm not entirely satisfied either, Barock. Banehallow's head is small enough as it is anyways._

"Watch it," Banehallow growled, and Akasha swiveled around. Jolgot let loose a loud, wolfish laugh in his head.

"It's Abaddon," Akasha turned, "I better go. He'll no doubt be in a foul mood in several hours, and whatever business he has with you I'd rather avoid. Last time I entered a conversation with him, I left it with orders to travel half the continent over to bed some stupid human king."

Resplendant as she turned away from the tent flap with the sun at her back, she grinned mischeviously at Banehallow, and then disappeared. The assassin knew she had reappeared several feet away, but he could not restrain a tinge of jealousy in his gut.

_Such a show-off. One day she'll blink right into trouble, mark my word. Overconfident banshee._

_Quiet, human, Banehallow must exchange words with the ice-bringer. Disturb him not._

Nimbly, the five and a half feet human pocketed a throwing dagger and planted another on his hip. Grabbing a throwing star wrapped in the folds above the tent entrance, he exited while dissimulating it in his right sleeve. An assassin did not walk even a dozen steps without his tools.

"Banehallow," the cold, arrogant voice of Abaddon, Knight of the Death Guard and Keeper of the Runeblade Frostmourne, greeted the killer as he left his tent, "It is a pleasure to see you."

Abaddon had few he could call friends, but he got along well with Banehallow. Both taciturn by nature, yet confident in their abilities, they felt they had a tacit understand of each other.

"I am afraid you will not stay long to welcome the naga general," the Death Knight drawled in his heavy human accent, "There is business to be carried out. You will leave tonight."

Banehallow's gaze was unwavering, as ever, and he said nothing, so Abaddon continued.

"Transportation has been arranged into Avernus, the human stronghold on the tip of the Peninsula of Azshara. Due to time constraints, we have arranged passage on the fastest possible ship that can take you there, which you will board this night. Your duty is simple, but difficult."

Abaddon sighed and looked out at the forest before turning back.

"The Lord of Avernus is a dangerous madman, but his service to the Alliance has been invaluable. He is a demon on the battlefield, and has multiple times routed superior Scourge or naga armies. For this reason, he cannot be allowed to take command of the combined army heading north through Ashenvale. I believe, due to Alliance politics, he has not yet been designated commander of the armies marching toward us, but we cannot take the risk. He must be eliminated, and to kill him in his very fortress might even incite the local trolls to rebel against the small Alliance presence there."

"The Lord of Avernus," Banehallow mused, "is known to me. He is that butcher who plants fields of pikes outside his castle upon which to place the heads of his enemies, no?"

Abaddon nodded, "As I said, he is a madman. You will have to exercise the utmost caution. Apparently, he has adorned his dining hall with the head of a Watcher. He will not be an easy target."

The assassin smiled grimly, "And you send me to do what a Watcher cannot? I will need reinforcements, or at least a diversion."

The Death Knight shook his head, "The naga are otherwise occupied, and as I said, none of our ships can make enough speed to reach Avernus within two fortnights. But we are confident that you can do this. A Watcher, while a deadly opponent, is still a nerubian. You are a human, and you can penetrate Avernus's defences. A single poisoned dagger and the job is done."

Banehallow leaned in, "I am going to reach Avernus in two fortnights? What ship is this, Abaddon, that can travel so far so fast?"

Abaddon looked away, "We did not make this decision lightly, Banehallow. But considering the importance of this task we had little choice. You will be traveling as a passenger aboard the Culling Blade. The Axe has promised your security."

_Perfect, Banehallow, a passenger aboard the Culling Blade. Might as well have asked to be a passenger on board an Alliance battleship, you'd probably survive longer._

"The Culling Blade," Banehallow growled, "I cannot believe Mogul Khan has consented to allow his ship to be used as a ferry for Scourge assassins. May I bring guards with me?"

Abaddon winced, "The payment promised by our Eternal Lord should be enough to keep the Axe in check. He will hold to his word, or he will lose both a large fortune and his greatest patrons. Worry not, Banehallow, the Axe is on our side."

_As much as a pirate can be. He was also on the Barbary King's side, before he betrayed and murdered him._

"At last," Abaddon turned, his abnormally white hand clenching the glowing runeblade strapped to his hip, "The naga has arrived. Let us go pay our respects."

* * *

The Naga general brought seventeen thousand, straight from the Maelstrom and ready to lay waste at his command. Himself draped in gold baubles and elaborate jewelry, the Slithereen Commander seemed a fine representative for one of the greatest empires in the world.

After the Scourge of course.

"Hail!" the Naga's voice boomed out to the hundreds of spectators come out to see the arrival of their allies, "I greet you all in the name of the Empress! I, Salah-al Dar, bring the might of the Seaborne Empire to your aid, that our mutual foes may be slain to the last man, elf, and orc, their lands devastated, and their riches taken for our own. Hail, mighty Scourge!"

He talks a lot for a fish, Abaddon thought wryly. He had nothing but contempt for these dressed up sycophants that played at being generals. They reminded him of the Alliance he had long ago left. Fine public speakers, but their great words and speeches seemed to abandon them as they lay dying beneath a Death Knight's vengeful blade.

"Hail, Salahdar," answered an ancient icy voice, "In the name of the Lich King, our eternal master, I welcome you. I am Krobelus, Field Marshal of the Scourge, and greet you with all the respect you deserve."

With that enigmatic statement Krobelus turned and entered the commander's tent. The Naga general stood as two burly guardsmen divested their leader of his ceremonial trappings and without further ado, he followed the Scourge Field Marshal's example. After a moment of watching the Naga ceremonial guard and their restless, shifty eyes, Abaddon too entered the tent.

As he sat down, he glanced around the interior of the makeshift command post. Around a large wooden table stood the other notable officials of the army, save for a few that were elsewhere. Krobelus, of course took her seat at the head of the table, as commanding in a wooden chair as if she sat on a throne. The last of the Lich King's Field Marshals, she adored her Lord like a hound his master, and her fanatical gaze swept over lesser mortals as if she saw nothing but ants.

Bone showed where skin had peeled off Krobelus's hands and face, but she was no lich. The twisted smile on her lips and the spasms and twitches of her undead hands were the only indication that she was a master of one of the rarer arts-not necromancy, but demon summoning. When she laughed, it was a laugh that sounded of fire and madness, of destruction by berserk fiends born of the flames of hell.

Razor stood a comfortable distance from the Field Marshal, refusing to sit, suspended as he was two feet above the ground. Electricity flickered down the length of his cloaked body, ending at the juncture where his legs should have been, yet were not. Abaddon did not know what manner of revenant or fiend Razor was, but he was certainly no regular undead. A mage of power, Razor was one of the rare magic-users that was neither a lich nor a necromancer. In the absence of Krobelus, he was the strongest spellcaster in the camp.

Akasha, of course, was well-known to Abaddon. She flashed him a grin across the table, but he ignored her. What they did at night was not to be hinted at during the day. Seductress, assassin, spy, Akasha had after Kel'thuzad's death gained the position of Mistress of Espionage. With the chaos she had left behind in the Alliance, she had definitely earned it.

Strygwyr made Abaddon's lips twitch in distaste. With the placid gaze of a bovine, the half-orc was undoubtedly one of the stupider specimens of mercenaries that Abaddon had ever had the misfortune to meet. Unfortunately, as the leader of the Black Hawks mercenary group, he was assured a place at the table by the presence of his thirteen thousand odd irregular infantry and cavalry.

Clinkz, of course, languished in the back of the tent, his skeletal head staring blankly into the distance. Abaddon had not known the skeleton archer to be a dreamer, but how he acted in the presence of others did not matter. Clinkz operated independently, and had long ago earned command of the Scourge's reconnaissance, under the tutelage of Kel'Thuzad. Finding him in camp was rare, as he was often scouting the edges of Elthop Forest for places in which to ambush the Alliance troops that would shortly arrive.

Finally, apart from the table stood a solitary figure, with tentacles covering its face, and the blue skin of some strange sort of demon. Abaddon recognized him as Mogul Khan's messenger, one of the cursed pirates come no doubt to haggle with Krobelus over the price of the transport. Perhaps sending a Faceless One to a Scourge meeting was the Axe's idea of a display of strength. Few of the Faceless Ones had survived the Lich King's purge of their native caverns.

Abaddon's mouth curved into a contemptuous smile. It was disgusting that the Lich King now needed to rely on such scum to help him defeat his enemies. Mercenaries, nagas, and pirates.

"So," Krobelus's aged voice rang out clearly in the silence of the tent, "This campaign is of the utmost importance to Scourge strategy. Our master expects you to press relentlessly into enemy lands, through Elthop Forest and further, to assume control of the entire region if possible. I will be needed to coordinate all of our campaigns, but if failure occurs here, there will be punishment."

Emotionless as death itself, the Field Marshal continued, "Any retreat on this front will lead to the isolation and possible destruction of our allies in their respective campaigns. Should 1049 not prove to be a year of Scourge victories, we stand in danger of opening Northrend up to Alliance invasions."

A glance around the room assured Krobelus that 1049 would indeed be a year of Scourge victories.

"Now, on to the logistics. Salahdar has brought seventeen thousand naga infantry. Abaddon commands thirty thousand Scourge. Magnus has five hundred magnataurs and we also have a half-thousand necromancers and another thirteen thousand Black Hawks."

Respective nods answered Krobelus's survey of the state of the army.

"Our enemies have stripped their garrisons to concentrate their forces into one army to march against us. What I want to know is whether we have the numerical advantage."

Abaddon spoke up, his voice passive but professional, "To combat a threat of our caliber, the Alliance can muster up to fifty thousand men-at-arms, knights, and mages. In a reasonable time rate though, they will only be able to field thrity-five thousand against us. They will likely gain the other fifteen thousand over the course of six months."

"This campaign will not last six months," Krobelus's voice was pleased, "What of the Sentinel, Clinkz?"

The skeleton's voice was soft and reedy, and the skull creaked as the mouthpiece moved, "A Sentinel army will field twenty-thousand. Druids will not exceed a few hundred. The commander will be a priestess of the moon, a high ranking and powerful one."

"As always. It appears, Salahdar, that the scales are evenly matched. I have no doubt that the superior skill of our branches of espionage and magic will give us the advantage, and the empress speaks most highly of your abilities as a commander. I expect nothing less than absolute victory."

Abaddon interrupted his Scourge commander, "The threat here is in the Horde. Within a few months they will have fifty-thousand ready to ride and..."

"The Horde," Krobelus answered coolly, "has been taken care of. Our gracious friend Darkterror here has arranged an agreement with the fel orcs of the north. The Horde will have its hands full for quite some time."

As if on cue, the Faceless One finally spoke, his voice rusty and thick with disuse, "Concerning the matter of payment..."

"The fee has already been agreed on. It will be paid after it has been earned, not before."

Darkterror's face darkened with anger, "My captain..."  
"Is, though a great aid to the Scourge, still nothing compared to MINE. And Ner'zhul, I assure you, does not haggle," there was still no emotion in Krobelus's voice, though the volume did rise to drown out Darkterror's protests. Wearily, she turned back to the table, "Anything else?"

"What of the Watchers?" Akasha's voice seemed almost meek, so carefully detached and soft as it was.

Krobelus froze, and a rigid silence took hold of the tent, finally, the general turned to regard her interrogator, "That is what you're here for, mistress of espionage, no?"

Akasha nodded imperceptibly, clearly unsatisfied with the answer.

"As you all know, the Watchers are a constant threat to us. They have agents in our camp and noone is above suspicion. Their assassins have claimed responsibility for the murders of some of our greatest commanders, and we will not treat further threats lightly. Nerubians are to be killed on sight, and anyone suspected of aligning himself with the Weaver should be reported to either I or Salahdar, as secretly as possible. We cannot allow Anub'seran to upset our plans now."

"If there are no other questions I shall take my leave. Salahdar will assume complete control of this army and you will all serve to the best of your ability. I shall return as soon as is possible but the enemy will arrive here first. Remember that we must advance along this front as quickly as possible in order to concentrate the enemy's forces here, and shatter them."  
Abaddon clenched his fists, enfuriated that the naga and not he had been placed in charge of the army. But now was not the time to express his objection, not with Krobelus there.

Fuming, he watched the others exit, the Faceless One named Darkterror being the first. Idly, he wondered whether he would keep his word to Krobelus. If he didn't, he would find Banehallow a dangerous opponent, regardless of what the assassin said about his abilities. While he had his secrets, Banehallow had overcome tremendous odds in the past and would no doubt continue to do so. Vladimir Arath would die, and if Mogul Khan got in the way, he would too.

Then the naga pushed his way to the entrance, his reptilian scales gleaming under the light of the morning sun. Abaddon felt a sudden urge to draw his sword and stab the vile creature, but he did not draw Frostmourne from its sheath. When the naga failed to gain the victory Krobelus wanted, Abaddon would be there, and he would ask her for the honor of beheading his rival. Until then, he would bide his time.


End file.
